


cellophane girl, you're turning me over

by austen



Category: The Office (US) RPF
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-12-25
Updated: 2009-12-25
Packaged: 2019-06-05 13:28:32
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,127
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15171716
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/austen/pseuds/austen
Summary: Jenna's got her bikini body on display for the whole world to see. John's not sure if he should be looking.





	cellophane girl, you're turning me over

**Author's Note:**

> Note from diana, the archivist: this story was originally archived at [Pretty Lights](http://fanlore.org/wiki/Pretty_lights), which closed for financial reasons. To preserve the archive, I began manually importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in May 2017. I e-mailed all creators about the move and posted announcements, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this creator, please contact me using the e-mail address on [Pretty Lights collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/prettylights/profile).
> 
> Warnings: PG for mild language.
> 
> Notes: For Olivia (nalakaori_chan), who requested John Krasinski/Jenna Fischer.

He spots her on the cover of the magazine about two weeks after she warns him about it. She's grinning up at him in a fuschia bikini with a pair of hoop earrings you could fit your hand through, and even though there's been some retouching, the wide smile on her face is anything but.   
  
"I don't know what you were so worried about, Fisch," he teases, after he flips open his phone to call her. Five minutes later, and he's walking away from the newsstand with the issue in his hand, discreetly hiding the front cover against his side. He's not sure why, but something about potentially being caught with it makes his stomach twist in a way he can't put his finger on.   
  
"Shut up. Just tell me you didn't buy one," she answers, and he can almost picture her rolling her eyes on the other end.   
  
"If I did, do you promise you'll autograph it for me? Something this valuable is going to go like hot cakes," he says, juggling his car keys in one hand; he gently tosses the magazine onto the front passenger seat.   
  
"Seriously? John, who even _says_ that?" She sighs quietly. He bites the inside of his cheek to hide a grin she won't see. They both know she'll eventually give in. It's just a matter of waiting.   
  
"Fine. But I'm not going out, so you're going to have to come to me."   
  
"Deal. I'll be there in five, Fisch." He hangs up before she can protest.   
  
Five minutes turn into six, then fifteen; he chalks it up to L.A. midday traffic, but soon enough he's pulling into her driveway. It's just her car there today; Lee's in New York working on some screenplay he's about to pitch. He briefly realizes he's been alone all week, too; with Emily in England working on her latest period piece, the apartment has been all too empty. But they've been doing this long before either of them were engaged. Even back when she was still married to James, he'd stop by for a cup of coffee or a movie. It was never anything complicated, never anything to read into.   
  
She opens the door before he has a chance to ring the bell, and he greets her by shoving the cover in her face.   
  
"Don't do that." She's grinning, though, as she plucks it out of his hands, looking down and making a face. He jams his hands in his pockets and shrugs innocently, stepping inside and closing the door behind himself with a nudge of his heel.   
  
"God, they really did Photoshop the hell out of this, didn't they?" she asks, the question sort of rhetorical, and he trails along behind her into the living room.   
  
"Well, I wouldn't know. It's not like I have anything to compare it to," he points out. Her expression clearly says it for her: _John, don't be stupid_.   
  
"Where did you think all that cardio I was doing went? Besides, you know how badly it killed me not to be able to run before." He nods quietly, remembering the accident and how annoyed she'd been - not necessarily by the injury itself, but because it was the reason she'd had to stay in bed for weeks - months, even - and she hadn't been able to exercise even longer than that.   
  
"Yeah, I know. But don't worry," he murmurs, smiling down at her.   
  
"You look great."   
  
"You have to say that," she mutters. "You're my TV husband now."   
  
"That's right," he says, "and as your TV husband, you should cook me dinner."   
  
"You're my _TV_ husband," she says. "Therefore, you should get a _TV_ dinner."   
  
"Oh, snap." He grins. She giggles. He looms in her space now, casting a shadow across part of her face, and reaches over to run a hand along her side, fingers curled in to tickle her. She squirms out of the way - or attempts to, but it's hard for her to avoid it when his reach is as long as it is. His hand makes contact with her ribs and gently digs in.   
  
" _Stop_ that."   
  
She swats at his arm, but he reaches out to grab her wrist, pulling her hand aside for his other hand to dart in and finish where he'd started. She's caught, practically pinned against him and laughing hysterically, her face scrunched up and pink with effort, her sides heaving with trying to breathe. He stops, leaving them both panting - her breathing hard against him, him laughing breathlessly. He reaches up to brush a soft brown strand out of her eyes, originally knocked free when she'd been thrashing around. He can feel her heartbeat pounding as her chest slowly rises and falls against his.   
  
"Sorry," he says, not sounding apologetic in the slightest. "Stopping now."   
  
There's something unidentifiable in her gaze, an expression that momentarily passes over her face and then disappears as suddenly as it'd come. She feels good against him, _too_ good, and he swallows back guilt and regret when his hand releases her arm and trails down to grab her fingers, squeezing gently.   
  
"It's okay." The words fall quiet, in a near-whisper, from her lips.   
  
She's still so close now, close enough for him to feel the warmth as she exhales - first along his neck, then against his mouth as he lowers his head to look down at her. She leans in, almost as if considering -   
  
Her phone rings, the sudden sound jerking them apart like magnets on opposite poles. He clears his throat and notes the expression on her face as she reads the caller ID: _Lee_. He looks away as she answers. The magazine's resting on the coffee table where she'd set it down earlier, and he glances from the face on the cover to the face just in front of him.   
  
"I'm just gonna," he whispers, motioning to the door. He needs to leave, or put his head on straight, or _something_. Whatever it is, he can't do it with her here. Or him here. And seeing as how it's her house, it's only fair that he makes the exit.   
  
He's got the key in the ignition and starts to turn it forward when the front door opens. She dashes down the front steps to him, magazine in hand, and he rolls down the window for her to press it into his hands again.   
  
"Careful," she murmurs, nudging his hands away from the center, her thumbs running over his knuckles. "The ink's still wet."   
  
He looks down to see her scrawling signature over her bikini body, and the corners of his mouth quirk into a grin.   
  
"Oh, and just so you know?"   
  
Her expression begins to mimic his.   
  
"They didn't airbrush it _that_ much."


End file.
